


Practically Illegal

by rosey_finch



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Altair as Strict and Dangerous with Feelings, Desmond as Bar Boy, Ezio and Desmond are cousins, Ezio as Ezio, F/M, Las Vegas, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:33:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26014189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosey_finch/pseuds/rosey_finch
Summary: Altaïr thinks enough is enough; moles are to be rooted out. Ezio's knows a guy that can help; a familiar face with quick hands and an excess of luck.
Relationships: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Desmond Miles, Ezio Auditore da Firenze & Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, Ezio Auditore da Firenze & Desmond Miles
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	Practically Illegal

There’s doughnut crumbs on his steering wheel.

 _We’re jokes_ , Altaïr thinks to himself as the Cernel’s distorted, crackling voice barks on through the receiver. This is not a surprise; really, Altaïr would have to be an idiot (or an Ezio) to overlook the stupid goose chases they’ve been taking on. Do something about this granny’s missing necklace (“plastic, yes,” she had said, a challenge in her eyes), separate these fighting dads at that Chuck-E-Cheese (they ended up wrestling in the _ball pit_ ), escort a hooker out of some old-money, health-guru’s mansion (“He likes me because I look like his daughter!” She’d yelled, and Altaïr made it a point to avoid looking at any family pictures hanging in the mansion).

Las Vegas, bustling as it is, doesn’t have enough cops or funds to be sending men like them on side-quests. Altaïr, jaded as he now is, has a gut-feeling that trashes and claws at the walls in his stomach; telling him that he got too close to something big with the Paulo-investigation. Close enough to make his superiors sweat.

First his demotion, his credibility and dignity kicked down the drain, and now a boot against his neck, making him grovel for scraps. Solving neighbourly disputes between plump, thin-browed mothers, picking drunks off the curb, stopping by at casinos when their cash-cows get too rowdy. It’s not _real_ work. And it’s been driving him crazy.

He tries to take controlled breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth – but the Cernel keeps going on and on about an underdog hotdog stand rivalling a locally popular taco-truck against all odds. He does it with this grating condescending tone that makes his skin itch – but Ezio looks genuinely enraptured with the story. Eyes creased with amusement, excited grin and he chomps along on his lunch. _Oohing_ and _aahing_ at the telenovela twists and turns to this bizarre redemption story of coleslaw-toppings; Altaïr can’t help but snap.

Ezio smacks against the car door when he pulls into traffic with a vicious pull at the steering wheel, trying his hardest not to slam his foot through the floor and to loosen his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. He uses his reflexes to protect the messy, sloppy joe on his lap. His head slams against the glass hard enough for it to bounce.

He's is astonished that there’s no hollow clang resonating through the car upon impact; but there is a lot of dramatic, vicious Italian being flung around to make up for it. Ezio’s sugary coffee, belatedly, topples from where he had it precariously balanced between his knee and the dashboard; it spills onto his thighs and the spongy car seat, but only because he lifts his _meatball sandwich_ into the air to keep it safe and edible instead of keeping his skin burn-free. Health-code violations over health in general, apparently.

“ _Cazzo!_ ” he manages, eyes wide and startled as he struggles to sit up straight. Altaïr ignores it, turning on their flashing lights and weaving around the lunch-rush traffic. He swerves around a motorbike in a way that should feel hazardous, but instead comes off as controlled and calculated; a coiled snake, striking. If only their car wasn’t a dingy, rickety joke (neon pink, Hawaiian flower stickers decorate their bumper).

“I know, amen to that.” Cernel says around a mouthful of something, lost in his own story and very clearly not caring for what is happening on the other end of the line. It's easy to imagine his thick, coarse moustache wiggling as he bites into his daily Dunkin, dusted with a shimmer of powdered sugar and oil-grease. “Those sons of bitches sabotaged the jalapeños. Go take care of it, champs.”

Without looking Altaïr turns off the comm, before ripping it off of the dash and tossing it in the back. 

“You didn’t seem the type to care for tacos and dogs,” Ezio hisses, pissed and confused. He looks around, trying to spot whatever threat he overlooked that warranted this reaction and that particular glare. Spotting nothing except speed-blurred traffic, he kicks an angry foot against the dash and throws his hands up – taking care to balance his meal, still. “Look what you did – bastard!”

“I don’t care,” Altaïr replies, cutting into a new lane and away from the location Cernel assigned to them.

“Are you having a stroke?” Ezio asks. “What are you _doing_?!”

“My job _,_ ” he says; and he’s burning up with anger, blinded by the sun, getting nauseous off of the lingering, heavy smell of tomato sauce, meat balls and Styrofoam-cup coffee. But he also feels himself slipping into the old-familiar, something ambiguous blooming back to life in his chest as he pushes the speed meter higher; like he has compass to follow North again. 


End file.
